Page 9 of Letting Go

"Yes," she says. "No problem. Still don't know much about you, though."

"I like it that way," I say and try to grin. It's not that I'm trying to be aloof, it's that there is really no story to tell. She seems to think I've got a dark and mysterious past. It's dark but not mysterious. In fact, it's all chronicled and anyone can look it up. I'm well documented. I feel like my entire life is documented … in military court.

Trudging up the stairs two at a time I step into the office. There, on the center screen is Nic Silvano looking very chic and very Italian, every hair in place, with brooding eyes, a cleft in his chin, a crisp white shirt, a black tie, and a black suit jacket. Knowing Nic, he probably slipped his feet into his favorite $50 socks and there's a fresh crease in his pants, though nobody can see either. I don't think I've ever seen the guy look haggard.

He does, however, look serious. "Okay, shut the door. Anybody in there with you?"

I shake again. "Nope."

"I want you to plug in some earbuds. This is for your ears only."

"Really?" I fish around in my back pocket for a pair.

"Really."

"Don't you need to talk to your partner first?"

"I don't think so," said Nic. "Just sit down."

It turns out they want to hire someone. Some guy from California for the Portland office and the two of them already made the decision. Nic wanted to make sure I was okay with it. I don't know why he thought I'd want to weigh-in. I don’t pay the bills. It took a few minutes to link it all together. We don’t really have a Portland office. We've got a satellite office that's there for anyone to use, but no staff. Maybe he and Finn are planning to staff up and make this guy in charge. Passing me up.

I guess I'm not really part of the team. Thus, the kid-gloves chat.

Chapter Five

Chloe

Along the Maine coast, there are not a lot of sandy beaches. Instead, the coast is filled with large round boulders and rocks, sweeping swaths of granite, tumbling sea sweet peas, and wild purple iris. Echo Bay is known for having a half mile strip of gray and white sand that starts just past the main wharf. But before that, at two o'clock, sits Rock Island linked by a narrow causeway to the end of the road by The Inn. On the mainland, the beach bends and curves out to the ocean like an elongated "C," and at the very end, it closes with the traditional copes of sharp granite rock and a white lighthouse that seems painted into place in the distance.

This is where I've wandered down to, near that little rocky tip. The terns and gulls are out, and I catch sight of a clutch of puffins, a real thrill. Our dad told us that a group of puffins is called by a variety of names: a puffinry, colony, burrow, a gathering, or an improbability. My favorite was a circus. A "circus of puffins," because they look like little clowns. I'd name them and pretend to be the ringmaster with invisible elephants and lions, and our dog, Taffy, had to endure my attempts at trick dog training.

Gulls, wheeling above, the bright, deep, blue of the sea dotted with neon lobster buoys happily bobbing, all conspire to prick tears. How could I ever have left? Later, in the evening, between islands and drawn sails, Jimmy Delf will come out on his boat and play the bagpipes. He's been doing it for twenty-five years and we all love and hate him for it. Right now though, there's nothing but the natural sounds of the waves on rocks, and the receding water sifting through sand.

A twig snaps behind me. The large roses and bushes flanking the beach offer a dappled wall, but someone is in there.

The hair on the back of my neck instantly rises as my heart ticks up into the back of my throat.

Another crack and then my nephew, Cory, crashes through two rhododendrons and some sea pansies. Laurel follows him down on the beach a moment later and he races towards the water. I have to quickly sidestep to stay out of his way. Hair whips around my face as I watch the two of them, my sister and my nephew, the boy I missed so much of. Cory's still so young. He dances along the water, skipping only where the foam leaves widening white W's on the shore. Every now and then he stops and finds a shell, holds it up for his mother to see, and then dashes ahead. Claire and Devon tell me Cory's come a long way because Laurel's really worked hard with him.

I look down at my feet when Laurel tries to catch my glance and I know she's waving. Laurel's the youngest of us girls and had a really hard time in high school. I didn’t know about Cory until a year ago when I moved back to Portland and contacted Devon.

I wish I'd known earlier. I wish I could have held him as a baby. I wish I could have been there for Laurel when he was diagnosed. I wish I could have helped her think through how to make this world easier for him.

But I wasn't.

Instead, I was far away. Far from the ocean and the clean smell of salt, and the love of family. Even now, so glad in my heart that I'm back, I'm afraid that I won't appreciate it and I'll make the same stupid decision to leave again. I have to remember to anchor myself here.

Anchor. Great word.

"Hey!" calls Laurel and then Cory finds me and starts running, his little arms pumping, his blonde curly hair streaming. I kneel to catch him in my arms. I can picture it all, the writhing, happy little body, my chance to hug my sister and praise her mothering, the opportunity to give.

My fantasy ends.

Of course, he doesn't want to be held, least of all by me, the new auntie he's just met. Suddenly stopping short, he skitters in the sand and glances around, throwing his head from side to side, a sign he's feeling stressed. An index finger finds a place up his nose.

"Cory, leave your nose alone!" calls Laurel in a matter of fact tone—no judgment, no ridicule. He obeys. Then his mom jogs up from behind and takes his hand while he shifts from one foot to the other, watching me with quick sidelong glances.

It’s as if he's making sure I won’t run off.